


The Bass Incident

by Khylara



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, Peterick, Post-Hiatus (Fall Out Boy)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:14:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22045456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khylara/pseuds/Khylara
Summary: Pete has a little accident with his bass before the boys perform on "Good Morning America"
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Kudos: 18





	The Bass Incident

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the pics on Tumblr of Pete and his fire breathing bass. I couldn't help but think who would be idiotic enough to give him one and just went from there.

"Oh my God!" Patrick exclaimed, nearly spitting out the mediocre tea the runner had just gotten him from catering not a moment before. "What did you do?!"

"I'm fine," Pete said as he sat down next to him, his bass resting on his knee as he sipped on the biggest cup of coffee that Patrick had ever seen. They had just flown in to perform on "Good Morning America's" summer concert series and they all were more than a little tired. "Just a little hair loss, that's all. Nothing to get hysterical about."

Patrick stared at him. "Nothing to...your eyebrows are gone!" He waved a hand at his lover's red face. "What in the hell did you do?!"

"Pattycakes, I'm fine," Pete repeated patiently. "Everything is okay and nothing got damaged and no one got hurt. It was just a slight miscalculation, that's all."

"Miscal...what the hell!" Patrick stood up, suddenly angrier than Pete had ever seen him in in his life. "Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz...if you don't tell me what happened right fucking now I'm going to make you sleep in hotel room lobbies for the next fucking year." He loomed over the bassist, his hands on his hips. "Now for the last fucking time...what in the hell happened to your eyebrows?"

Pete cringed; Patrick's temper was formidable on normal occasions. Now...now it was almost volcanic in it's intensity. It would have turned Pete on if it also didn't scare him just a tiny bit. "Well...I singed them off."

"I can see that," Patrick remarked dryly. "How? Were you and Brendan trying to light vodka shots again?"

"That was in the name of science and happened almost fifteen years ago!" Pete defended. "And it wasn't stupid. I was doing way stupider stuff back then."

"That's not something to brag about, Pete!" Patrick protested, throwing up his hands in disgust. "Now tell me what the fuck happened."

"Okay...okay. Calm down, Pattycakes," Pete quickly placated. "If you keep yelling like that you'll give yourself a stroke." When Patrick leveled at him a look that would have killed a lesser man, Pete knew he had gone too far. He swallowed hard, offered up a quick prayer and went on. "The stage hands had me try out a new bass last night," he explained. "They were thinking it would be great on tour for when we play "My Songs"."

"A new bass?"

Pete nodded. "The neck is a converted flamethrower," he said, grinning. "One of the techs came up with it. You should see it. It's pretty damn cool."

Patrick didn't know what do do except stare at him, incredulous. "It's...you...what the..." he sputtered before yelling at the top of his lungs. "What in the fucking hell is wrong with you?!"

Pte winced; he could tell just by the singer's tone and pitch that he had already done his vocal warm ups. "Patrick...baby...I'm fine," he said again. "Really. No one else got hurt and I only got a little singed, that's all." Standing up, he did a twirl in front of the singer to prove his point. "See? I've had chicken that was crispier."

Patrick stared at him for a good long minute before grabbing him by the back of his tour jacket and marching him down the hall to the wardrobe room. "Of all the stupid, asinine, brainless, half assed, totally fucked up stunts you've pulled over the years," he fumed as he literally threw Pete into the nearest chair. "You stay the fuck put. I'm going to see if I can find the make up girl." With that, he stalked off.

Meanwhile, Joe came sauntering over, a grin on his face as he leaned against the make up table. "What did you do?"

Pete gave him a guitarist a look. "All I did was try out this new bass one of the techs came up with," he explained, gesturing with his hands. "It breathes fire and everything."

Joe stared at him. "Dude, what in the hell were you thinking?" he asked. "Are you aware that we're going out onstage in front of hundreds of screaming kids and a nation wide audience in," He checked his watch. "Fifteen minutes?"

Pete sighed. "Yeah...well...I may or may not have thought things out that far when I tried it out last night."

Joe snorted. "That far? Try any of it." He made a show of looking Pete over. "Did you burn off anything important?"

"Just my eyebrows. And they don't even hurt anymore," Pete suddenly became defensive. "I've had sunburns that have felt worse."

Joe shook his head. "You're an idiot."

Just then, Andy came over, twirling one of his drumsticks in between his fingers. "Why is Pete an idiot?"

For an answer, Joe spun Pete around so Andy could see the damage. Andy let out a low whistle in response. "Fuck," he muttered, leaning over to take a closer look. "What did you do?"

"Fire breathing bass," Joe answered before Pete could.

An exasperated look crossed Andy's face. "Joe's right. You are an idiot." he looked up at his guitarist. "Is that why Patrick is on a rampage?"

Joe nodded solumnly. "I think Canadians heard him all the way in Saskatchewan."

Andy let out a sigh of his own. "I stand corrected. You're a colossal idiot."

Pete suddenly looked indignant. "Hey!"

The drummer shook his head. "Nope. You don't get to try and bull shit your way out of this one, Wentz." He poked at Pete with his drumstick. "Fix this. Right the fuck now. Get on your knees if you have to. Otherwise you're gonna be the one to explain to our record label and our families and above all our fans why we suddenly went on another four year long hiatus just when we have a new album due out." With that, he headed onstage to check his kit.

Joe and Pete looked at one another. "I think I screwed up," Pete confessed. 

"Dude, you did way more than screw up. And no thinking was involved." He glared at Pete as well. "I'll say what Andy just did - fix this. Now." He looked up; Patrick was practiclly pulling a redheaded girl down the hall straight toward them. "Uh oh. Incoming. Good luck, man. You're gonna need it." With that, he followed Andy onstage.

Patrick stopped in front of him, waving a hand at his face. "Please...don't ask any questions," he begged. "We go on in ten minutes. Can you fix it or do I need to go hunt down some big ass sunglasses and a hat for camoflage?"

"I can fix it," she said as she opened her kit and pulled out an eyebrow pencil. "And I'll talk to the cameraman on that side of the stage. Make sure he only takes far away shots."

"Thank you." He shot another glare at Pete. "And if George Stephenopolis asks you what the hell you did to you eyebrows, you're on your own." With that, he grabbed his guitar and went onstage.

Watching him go, Pete heaved a sigh. "I think I owe him an apology."

She snorted as she drew. "Honey, you owe him roses." She poked at him with her pencil when he began to wiggle. "Stay still."

Suddenly miserable, Pete did as he was told and let her work.

*****

Later that evening, Pete stood in front of Patrick's closed hotel room door, feeling hesitant all of a sudden. _I left him alone all day,_ he told himself, his heart aching. _Hopefully he'll have forgiven me by now?_ Swallowing hard, he knocked. There was only one way to find out. 

The door opened, revealing Patrick already dressed for bed in his Batman flannel pajamas and Bowie T-shirt. "What do you want?"

Still mad, Pete guessed. Time to grovel. He pulled a red long stemmed rose oout from behind his back. "Forgive me?"

Patrick huffed a sigh. "I'm still fucking mad at you," he reminded the bassist.

"I know."

"You scared the unholy crap out of me."

"I know that, too," Pete apologized again. "I'm so sorry, baby. I don't know what the fuck I was thinking."

After a moment, Patrick took the rose and stepped aside. "Come in if you're going to."

Pete did so gratefully. "I really am sorry, Pattycakes," He sat down on the edge of the bed, his head hanging down to his knees.

"Do you understand why I was so scared?" Patrick asked as he sat down next to him, tipping his chin up with his finger. "That bass...it could have exploded in your face while you were playing it." His voice dropped to a whisper. "It could have killed you."

"The tech rigged in all sorts of safety features so something like that wouldn't happen amd he only used a little gasoline," Pete reassured him, taking his hand. "And there were three runners there with three big ass buckets of water ready to douse me if anything like that happened. Every precaution was taken." He gestured to his eyebrows. "This was a miscalculation, like I said."

"Too damn close of a miscalculation if you ask me. And I'm gonna tell that tech the same damn thing next time I see him," Parick vowed, still fuming. "Promise me you will dismantle the damn thing. Turn it onto match sticks and guitar strings."

Pete really didn't want to; he still thought it could work with a little time and effort. Plus it had really been cool. No other band in the world had a fire breathing bassist. The look on Patrick's face, however, made him relent. "I will. I promise." He put his head on his lover's shoulder. "Please say you forgive me."

"Of course, I forgive you," Patrick said, smiling a little. "Don't I always?"

Pete visibly sagged with relief. "Oh, thank fuck," he said, closing his eyes. "I thought I had **really** screwed up that time!"

"You did," Patrick reminded him. "Badly. I'm still debating on whether or not to make you sleep on the couch."

Pete laid his head in Patrick's lap and turned on the puppy dog eyes. "Aw...come on, baby," he said, running a hand up Patrick's leg. "Let me stay here with you tonight. I'll make it worth your while."

"No," Patrick said, slapping his hand away. "No! Pete! I'm not going to reward you for being an ass!" He giggled, slapping his hand away again. "Stop!"

"You love me," Pete sing-songed happily, making kissing noises up at him. "You love me so much...you can't live without me..."

"God help me. I do," Patrick admitted, leaning down to kiss him. "Although right now I can't think why."

"My sparkling personality? My witty banter in bed?" Pete suggested. "My smoking hot body?"

Patrick couldn't help it; he started laughing so hard that he fell against the pillows. "Ass," he pronounced a moment later, still giggling.

"You love my ass," Pete pronounced, standing up to wiggle it for good measure.

Patrick stuck his tongue out at him. "Go," he said, pointing to the door. "Out. It's late and I want to get some sleep. I'll see you tomorrow when I'm a little more coherant and less likely to spank you for something you did."

Pete's eyes went wide. "You can, you know," he invited, more than a little breathless at the idea. "I'd let you."

Patrick thought it over for a moment. "Not tonight," he said, much to Pete's dissapointment. "Some other time when you see it as punishment and not as a prelude to sex." Leaning over, he gave Pete another kiss. "Besides, with everything today, I'm too tired to do you justice."

"Tomorrow?" Pete asked hopefully.

"Ask me again tomorrow," Opening his hotel room door, Patrick gently pushed Pete out into the hallway. "Go get some sleep. And you're not allowed to call me at two in the morning with your insomnia like you usually do." He leaned against the doorframe and yawned. "I'll see you at breakfast tomorrow."

"You got it." Pete leaned in for one more kiss. "I love you. And I am sorry."

"I love you, too. Good night." Blowing the bassist a kiss, Patrick shut the door.

Pete headed back to his room, his phone already on his hand as he Googled the name and address of the nearest florist. He hit dial just as he unlocked his hotel room door. "Hi. Are you still open?" When he got an affermative he grinned in response. "Great! I need all of your roses in every color possible..."


End file.
